I had an epiphany yesterday while
driving to town. (Writers do their best thinking on road trips.) It started out
with me already worrying about the ranch dogs at the place where we plan to
park our travel trailer for two weeks while we explore the Central
Coast
Don’t hate me! But I find dogs to
be rather a nuisance. Akkk! I can hear it now. In a country where an estimated 17-62% of people sleep with their dogs, I realize I am so politically incorrect. Most
people would consider it a character flaw—a lack of sensitivity, coldness of
heart, mean spiritedness and maybe a dark side that can be detected by four-footed
little critters. I see myself in the politician who picks up a poopy little
baby at his political rally and gives it a smooch for the cameras. Then hands
it back to the mother before he breaks into hives.
I pet dogs with reluctance. For
several seconds I’m considering the downside of extending my hand, which
scientifically speaking is magnified a hecka-lotta times by the cones in a dog’s
eyes. It sees this immense catcher’s mitt swooping down, blocking out the
sunlight and invading its personal space. And what does it do? Wags its tail
and begs for more. I find this insane.
My husband is a big yellow flower in
the garden of dogdom. There is no dog too big, too growly or too stinky. He beckons
and soon the dog is standing in front of us, panting and drooling, and I’m
looking for froth, like with Old Yeller. Meanwhile my mouth is dry. My hands
are trembling, I’m getting hot and my skin is producing fear scent. Still, I
pet most dogs. And as soon as I can, I retract my hand and mentally count my
fingers. Meanwhile my husband is burrowed in the dog’s fur and the two of them
are romping around like new best friends while I look for someplace to wash my
hands. Then there’s the matter of picking up the excrement when we walk our own
dogs in town. Yuck. Can I say that again? Yuck.
Here’s the scoop (metaphorically
speaking.) There’s a reason why dogs and me are a bit standoffish. I come from
a long line of Norwegian women who didn’t let dogs in their tidy little houses—although
to be fair, the great-greats in Norway
kept goats under the house in the winter. These women prided themselves on
their homes. Immaculate, germ-free homes. A huge, muddy dog on a Norwegian
sofa? Think again.
Growing up, we had scruffy
sheepherding dogs that stayed with the herd (and tended to kill any strange dog
that entered the pasture.) Not exactly Lassie. And my cousins kept ranch dogs
that were great guard dogs. I have the scars to prove it.
Full Disclosure, our Labs have the run of ten
acres. They roll in strange stuff, swim in murky water and stink an hour after
their baths. They fill anal glands with regularity and they don’t sleep in the
house. They guard the chickens like their own, bark at the UPS
man for treats and seem to be having a wonderful life in spite of having to sleep on their own beds.
Back to my epiphany. God and dog
have the same three letters. I get that for many, rescuing dogs is an act of pure love—like feeding
the poor, tending the sick or clothing the naked. Rescuing dogs is a Corporal
Act of Mercy. For many, dogs are the path to spiritual enlightenment. For
others, snakes, hamsters and little white rats.
